


At Day, Night, and Dawn

by isuilde



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, except it's not porn, i'm sorry in advance, literal plot what plot fic, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Daryun, are you two dating?”</p><p>This is how the question is best asked. Straight and to the point, and Arslan is actually proud of how he doesn’t hesitate, nor does he stutter, even if the question itself is embarrassing.</p><p>Daryun gives a heavy sigh. “In normal circumstances—“</p><p>Narsus passes by, his robes fluttering behind him, steps curt and even. “We are not.”</p><p>(Daryun, Narsus, and their relationship in every other aspect of their lives.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Day, Night, and Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Днём, ночью, на рассвете](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260011) by [WTF_ArslanSenki2016](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_ArslanSenki2016/pseuds/WTF_ArslanSenki2016)



> Written for [glitteringloke](https://twitter.com/glitteringloke) over at twitter, who completely indulged me and let me write DaryuNaru because I really wanted to, and asked for nothing but a reference to Daryun's eyebrows (which I would've done even without her asking probably wwww). tl;dr, one of my best and oldest fandom friend, I love you, Rose.
> 
> This ends up being an absent-minded piece that has no plot whatsoever--just snippets that take place in various instances of the anime timeline, I suppose. Please keep in mind that as I don't read the novels, I have very little canon knowledge and I might have gotten things wrong. Since this is my first time writing DaryuNaru, and I'm still exploring their characters, please bear with me! :D I hope you'd enjoy this!

The air smells of blood.

Narsus wrinkles his nose, eyebrows tauting as he flicks away the blood clinging to his sword in one smooth motion. There’s a sort of arrogance in the set of his shoulders, the sort that all nobles have without them even noticing, and Daryun lets himself watch closely for a moment: the cock of Narsus’ hips, the sway of his hair, the fingers grasping the reins.

Satisfied that Narsus doesn’t seem to be hurt, he finally speaks up, “It seems that they’re just strays.”

“Waste of time,” Narsus huffs, irritation flashing in the lines of his face. There’s blood smeared along the line of his lower jaw, and Daryun reigns back the urge to reach out and wipe them off—or maybe smear them even more. Lower, probably, to the dip of Narsus’ collarbone. “Attacking in broad daylight, not even with the element of surprise on their side. Foolish wretches.”

They’d gone out of Peshawar to personally scout the mountain path after Hirmiz’s escape, ensuring that there are no more Lusitanian soldiers lurking around. Instead of encountering any more Lusitanian soldiers, it’s a bunch of stray bandits trying out their luck on them, and even though the fight is over in less than ten minutes, Daryun has been watching Narsus’ mood growing worse by the second.

Being called ‘Inept Painter’ for the second time by the same person has made Narsus testy today.

“We need to go back to His Highness,” fingers tight in his reins, Daryun turns his horse towards their path back. The memory of Bahman’s last words tickle the edge of his mind, bringing with it the slightest of sorrow, and he shakes his head. No one has time for grief, now. “There are things we must take care of.”

Narsus laughs mirthlessly. “Before anyone whispers less desirable words about what we might be doing, out in the mountain so long, just the two of us?”

Daryun pauses, head tilting as the corners of his mouth curve down—an exasperation instead of irritation. “Narsus.”

“It’s a problem I’d rather face, compared to what Lord Bahman’s last words left us with.” The gaze that finds him is as sharp as the wits of whom it belongs, pinning Daryun in place with the realization it brings. “Let us hurry back. His Highness has yet to say anything, but as young as he is, he must be anxious right now.”

**\-----o0o-----**

It’s not exactly a secret. The gossip, that is. Soldiers, when they are not standing on a battlefield, still need constant excitement and entertainment, after all.

Gieve finds it endlessly amusing, especially with the fact that both Daryun and Narsus are aware of it. It doesn’t seem to bother either man at all; they still tear each other a new one in public shamelessly, flying insults and thinly-veiled sarcasm as they argue and make fun of each other. Everyone’s learnt to accept it as their way to express fondness to each other, somehow—even Alfreed.

“Ah, well,” she says to Gieve, as she stretches after a full day on the horseback. “I can’t compete with Daryun, but at least he’s not a female. I’m still going to marry Narsus, so it’s okay.” 

Gieve raises an eyebrow at the blatant confidence—at how foolish it sounds, at how Alfreed knows that it’s foolish. But then he catches Farangis from the corner of his eyes, her back tall and straight as she looks ahead, long hair slightly undone after a long day ride, strands of black falling over her shoulders—and with a resigned smile, he thinks he understands Alfreed’s foolishness, a little.

“Also,” Alfreed adds smugly. “Daryun can’t cook.”

That would be the cue for Elam to pick up the fight.

**\-----o0o-----**

Still, they fall to bed together.

Narsus isn’t quite sure when they continued. Having Daryun in his bed, his limbs forming a welcomed cage in which Narsus finds himself fitting in, his bulk a reassuring weight above him as they move to the silent rhythm of the night—he’s given up all of these, once, when he’s banished from the Court. Even back then, sleeping with Daryun, mostly, was almost like a game, much like the insults and the sarcasm they throw at each other by daylight. No exclusivity—not when a brothel offered so much variety, and they were young and eager to satisfy their curiosity.

Somewhere along their short journey after the defeat of Atropatene, something changes.

No longer is he running his fingers down the line of Daryun’s hip to laugh at the shudder he incites. No longer does he chase Daryun’s tongue to bet on the growl he could rip off Daryun’s throat. Somewhere along the way, they fall to bed together for the comfort it brings: the knowledge of someone he could trust more than anyone, the familiarity of someone he’s known for so long who could understand him better than anyone else could.

Maybe it’s because they’re at war. Maybe it’s because he’s been deprived of such physical connection for three years. Maybe it’s because Daryun’s skin still smells of copper blood and armor rust, a reminder of their journey, of what they’re aiming for.

Maybe he’s in love, Narsus thinks in amusement, and wonders why he doesn’t mind it as much as he used to.

He clambers over Daryun’s sleeping form, limbs disentangling and entangling back, marveling at the sensuous slide of their skin as he settles atop Daryun. Roused from his sleep, Daryun blinks awake—slow and content, one hand running up Narsus’ thigh even with the haze of sleep still thick in his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?”

He digs his chin into Daryun’s collarbone, listens to the way Daryun’s voice rumble through his ribs, feels the vibration along his skin. “I was wondering about Selica.”

Daryun groans. “Narsus, it’s the dead of the night—“

“Did you not meet someone—“ Narsus tilts his head with a knowing glance peering up beneath his eyelashes. A finger comes up to press against Daryun's brow, tracing the odd angle of its tail end—a physical feature Narsus never fails to find amusing. “—beautiful? Interesting?”

It earns him a suspicious look. “What brings this on?”

“I have reliable sources,” Narsus says lightly. “I heard about a knight—beautiful one, Daryun, or was it a Princess? While I’m facing _situations_ in Ecbatana and you’re— _oomph_ ,” he’s prepared for Daryun’s exasperated sigh, for Daryun flipping him onto his back—there’s no way Daryun could flip him so easily if he doesn’t let him. As it is, he laughs instead, enjoying Daryun’s weight on top of him, pressing on all the right places. Dark hair cascades down, and he tangles his fingers into them, pulling closer. “A Princess, Daryun?”

“It was a long story,” Daryun sighs, the words filling the scant space between them. “Why are you even—it’s _the dead of the night,_ Narsus.”

“As I said,” Narsus replies, almost cheerfully. “I was wondering.”

Daryun answers with a searing kiss, with fingers that are surprisingly gentle as they held Narsus’ jaw in place, etching words Narsus can’t quite catch into his skin.

The night is long, still, and too quiet for Narsus’ mind to let him sleep. This is a comfort and a distraction he likes to let himself indulge in, even if his partner is a brute who doesn’t understand the beauty of art.

**\-----o0o-----**

“Do you think it’s true,” Arslan begins, and Elam pauses in sharpening his short blade in favor of turning to the monarch who has just settled on the wood log by his side. There’s a curious note in the lilt of Arslan’s tone, and Elam follows his gaze to where Daryun is, trying to grasp what it is that Arslan is trying to ask.

He sees Narsus stride past Daryun, watches as Daryun throw his master an exasperated look, watches the smirk grow across his master’s lips.

“Have you been listening to what the soldiers gossip on, Your Highness?”

Arslan laughs weakly, a finger scratching his left cheek in a guilty gesture. “I’d argue that I am supposed to be listening to what my subjects are saying, but…”

Elam hums. “Do you disapprove?”

For a moment, the only thing that resounds between them is the constant scrape of rock against Elam’s blade. There are shouts echoing from the training grounds, clangs of swords and quick orders, and Elam wonders if he’d get to challenge one of the soldiers for a spar, later. Or if Arslan wouldn’t mind indulging him—they’re… friends, right? Is Elam entitled for a friendly spar with Arslan if he asked, then—

“It’s just,” Arslan mutters, sounding _this_ close to pouting. “Daryun never told me.”

Elam breaks in laughter. “His Highness,” he says, mirth in each syllable. “This is Lord Daryun we’re talking about. He would never tell anyone—“

“But I’m his liege,” Arslan continues, and Elam clasps a hand over his mouth, trying to rein in his laughter. For the first time since they met, this is probably the only time he’s heard Arslan sounding very close to complaining, or maybe more accurately, whining. “I should know.”

“Well,” Elam replies, a chuckle tickling the back of his throat. “Have you asked?” 

“Should I?”

“You are his liege,” He picks up his blade, peers up as the sun rays glint off its surface. “His loyalty is, first and foremost, always to you, Your Highness.”

With that, he grasps the blade carefully and offers the hilt to Arslan. “Try asking.”

There’s nothing like watching the smile curves along Arslan’s lips. Elam thinks of how young he is—how young _they_ are—and understands, in that instance, what Narsus meant when he once said he wanted Elam to be more of a kid.

“You’re right.”

Arslan takes the hilt, unwavering, his grip firm and _right_.

“Thank you, Elam.”

**\-----o0o-----**

But of course, when it comes to Daryun and Narsus’ dynamics, everything is confusing to Arslan.

“Daryun, are you two dating?”

This is how the question is best asked. Straight and to the point, and Arslan is actually proud of how he doesn’t hesitate, nor does he stutter, even if the question itself is embarrassing.

Daryun gives a heavy sigh. “In normal circumstances—“

Narsus passes by, his robes fluttering behind him, steps curt and even. “We are not.”

Arslan is, honestly, just very confused. “Huh?” He stares at Narsus, who goes along on his way like nothing happened, then turning back to Daryun. “Huh?”

His subject looks like he’s about to tear his hair out, but resorting to pressing a hand against his face instead, sighing heavily, and then grouches, “It’s just that that guy is never normal.”

Arslan blinks. Twice. Thrice. “I see,” he says slowly, and decides to just think it over and figure it out later.

**\-----o0o-----**

“Are we,” Daryun says, as he closes the door to their room behind him. “Dating?”

Narsus puts down his brush and his palette, motions dainty. “I’m not dating someone who can’t appreciate art.” He turns, a small smile curving up his lips, and Daryun knows an expectant gaze when he sees it. He sighs, wishes that this isn’t another game, but Narsus is clearly not in the mood to answer his question seriously.

Perhaps it’s for the better.  He presses two fingers on the bridge of his nose, massaging away the tell-tale of a headache. “What do you want, Narsus?”

“I’m glad you asked,” The small smile turns winning. “Pose for me.”

**\-----o0o-----**

“Send me out,” Daryun grits out, knuckles white as his fists rest on the corner of their map.

Narsus glares back, only because he can’t ignore Daryun when his face is mere inches from his own, pinched in a displeased frown. He feels the tension in the tent rises, feels the shift in their whole group, a weary sort of anticipation hanging in the air. Arslan looks up to the two of them, eyes worried, but says nothing yet.

“Send me out, Narsus.” The words are an order, and Narsus does not appreciate that. Not a bit. “I can divert them. I can give you time, His Highness could regroup and retreat—we cannot let ourselves be trapped here.”

“I am not sending anyone out to die,” Narsus says, each word enunciated evenly, eyes never leaving Daryun’s. “Consider our position, Daryun. Our defensive measures—“

“Then we’ll go offensive,” Daryun cuts him off. His shoulders are tense, Narsus notes, and realizes that Daryun is ready for a long-winded argument if necessary. “We have enough soldier for it. I can take fifty thousand men on my own.”

Misra helps them. Foolish confidence, is what Daryun is spouting, and Narsus swallows his frustration, reminding himself not to rise to the bait. “They have a hundred thousand.”

Watching the smirk curve on Daryun’s lips is maddening. “With your strategy, my strength should double.” One eyebrow raises, challenging, and Narsus grits his teeth at that. “Or has your capability diminished?”

And Misra knows Narsus can’t back off from such challenge. Not when it’s Daryun who says so—Daryun who always puts his utmost faith on Narsus’ thoughts, on the way Narsus’ plays the battlefield like he would a board of chess.

“I hate you,” he grits out, hates how Daryun’s smirk just widens. But his brain is already working, grasping the mismatched puzzle pieces to slot the together, Daryun’s figure a focal point in the board. He jabs a finger against Daryun’s chest, frustration and anger climbing up his throat. “I am not going to make this easy for you.”

If anything, Daryun’s smirk just turns into a low laugh. Accepting back a challenge and throwing one right back out, this is how they work best together.

“Get to it.”

**\-----o0o-----**

Minutes before a battle begins is probably Daryun’s most favorite moments in life.

There’s something in him that just quietens down at the sight of enemy’s troops advancing closer. It’s akin to a single-minded focus he gets when he’s facing a worthy opponent—the thrill of danger forgotten as his world narrows down to what he needs to do, what he needs to cut down, where the victory he could seize. A quiet anticipation that settles in him like a calming blanket, his head clearing out, and Daryun could feel the transition happens in him.

He loves those moments.

“I’ve done my part,” he hears Narsus say, and smiles at the haughty tone lacing the words. Always so proud and confident of his work, that Narsus, and perhaps it is the very reason why his presence is captivating, always.

“For His Highness, I’ll bring back victory,” he replies, securing his helmet in place. He could feel Narsus’ eyes on him, watching closely.

“Don’t let your guard down.”

A hundred thousand. He has twenty thousand men of his own, and it is enough.

He smirks. “Your strategy never allows me to do so.”

Narsus snorts. “As they should be. I wish you luck, Daryun.”

He might not need it. He has Narsus’ plan to go with, clever and ingenious as always, and he trusts in both his own skill and Narsus. He doesn’t say it, though—neither of them needs their ego stroked—and instead answers with, “Thank you.”

Narsus turns away and leaves, white robes bright under the sun.

The enemy is approaching.

**\-----o0o-----**

“Take care not to break her heart too hard,” Farangis says from behind her cup, and Narsus turns a quizzical look to her. She doesn’t say anything, just nods towards where Alfreed is, once again, engaged with an argument with Elam.

Narsus groans, throwing a sideway glance at Daryun, who’d covered his laugh with a polite cough. “It isn’t at all my intention, she just—“

“Oh, I’m aware,” the corner of Farangis’ lips twitches up. “So is she, but she is young.”

“Strong and hopeful,” Daryun adds, watching the wine swirls in his cup. Narsus reaches out for the bottle, intending to have more than his usual fill of alcohol tonight, if they are going to talk about this. “Wouldn’t be the first time that you break women’s hearts.”

The wine almost spills as Narsus lifts his cup. “You’re saying I should not let her dream?”

“Dreams are what make her stand stronger,” Farangis says, and Narsus watches in half-awe at the fact that her hands are still steady, even after the countless cups she’s drank before him. “You are not wrong.”

Daryun snickers. “Always so weak with kids, Narsus.”

“One who is so protective of our Crown Prince to fret over a simple papercut is not one to talk,” Farangis tells him, sending Daryun to a spluttering mess, and Narsus raises his cup in respect to the priestess.

Farangis raises a bottle in reply.

**\-----o0o-----**

He doesn’t quite remember who had told him the tale, or perhaps where he might have read it, but Narsus remembers the line perfectly: _The countless stars up above are the souls of those who’d departed from this world, looking down still on the living and will, in time, be the judge of their actions._

The sky is clear tonight.

He steps through the door to the balcony, bare feet soundless against the white tiles of the floor, freezing cold by the winter night chill. His loose robes—his only protection against the winter bites—slide across the floor, fluttering behind as the wind sneaks beneath the fabric.

The one he’s looking for is leaning forward against the railings, head tilted up, eyes fixed on the sky.

“Daryun,” he calls, and the name rolls out easily in his tongue, each syllable too soft that it feels like the wind might just steal and carry them away. It reaches, though, because Daryun stiffens for a moment before tilting his head back, eyes searching.

Finding Narsus’ own, they soften. “Did I wake you?”

Narsus doesn’t answer. He closes their distance in three quick steps, instead, one hand reaching out to cup Daryun’s cheek, thumb against the line of his jaw. The skin against his palm is chilled, a testament to how long Daryun has spent outside.

Daryun closes his eyes and leans into the touch. A soft sigh escapes from his lips, nearly inaudible, if it isn’t for the fact that Narsus is already moving forward, tugging Daryun closer and leaning in to press their lips together.

Arms encircle his waist, holding close. Fingers rest and settle on the dip of his hips, the grip tighter than he expects, and Narsus draws the kiss long, keeps the late night desire away from the simple touch of comfort. He enjoys Daryun’s sigh against his lips instead, breathes what Daryun exhales, and finally, finally lets go, lets his lips stray to where his thumb had been seconds before.

Daryun whispers, “Two thousand.”

In the battle today, alone. Narsus closes his eyes, eyelashes a butterfly kiss against the line of Daryun’s jaw. “It is not your responsibility alone, Daryun.”

He feels Daryun’s throat work, when he swallows. “I led them.”

“In the tune of my flute,” Narsus counters, and he hates this, hates counting the people they lost, because they’re at war and sometimes, no matter how good a strategy he comes up with, it does not minimize the casualties. He tucks Daryun’s shoulder under his chin and looks up, looks at the stars glittering in the clear sky, and wonders if there are at least two thousand stars born tonight.

“Do not think about it,” he murmurs into Daryun’s ear. “Lest you’ll be driven crazy, and what am I to do without the best Marzban to order around?”

Do not think, he thinks to himself, a mantra he’s grown familiar since he’s jumped back into the fray of war and politics, offering every skill he has for Arslan’s sake. Each piece of chess he’s playing on the board leads thousands of invisible other pieces—the soldiers who march on both horses and foot, the arrows that rain down upon their enemies and the swords that welcome the charge. He’s lost count of how many of those invisible other pieces he’s ordered to their death, and he can’t think about that.

He’d lose himself.

“Do not think,” Daryun echoes in his ear. “About it.”

But these nights are rare. Rarer still that this kind of thought visits them—those who are numbed by the battlefield, who looks at enemy troops and sees numbers instead of people. Narsus wonders if he should cherish it, after all. The proof that he’s still human, still thinks of the blood staining his hands, yet to descend to the path of an animal in a human’s body.

“Mmm.” He runs his fingers through the dark tresses cascading down Daryun’s back, lets it spill from his hand before he tugs on Daryun’s trousers, this time suggestively. “Come back to bed?”

He spies a small smile tugging up Daryun’s lips. “Lonely?”

Narsus makes a face. “I need my human furnace.” And it’s only half a joke, because Daryun exudes warmth like no other under the blankets, his bulk easily warming up to the touch of sheets. “The room grows cold.”

“I see that you’re only using me for my body.”

Narsus throws him a sweet, sweet smile.

“Don’t I always?”

**\-----o0o-----**

Dawn comes with shy layers of reds and oranges along the horizon, slowly banishing the winter night chill that clings to earth still.

It isn’t bright enough to wake up, yet, but Narsus rouses himself up from the cage of Daryun’s arms and the blankets, gaze following the first rays of sunshine that sneak through the thin curtain. He stares, silently, for a long while, the haze of sleep the furthest thing from his mind, until Daryun tugs on the strands of his hair, gently.

“Too early.”

He turns to find dark eyes, wide awake, staring back at him. None of them finds much sleep, in the end. “Troubles rise with the sun, Daryun.”

Calloused fingers lift the end of his hair, tangled as Daryun brings them to his lips, kissing and inhaling Narsus’ scent. “So does responsibility.”

“His Highness will be expecting you soon.”

And yet, none of them moves. Yet, it is not until the warmth of the morning creeps into the corners of their room, until the earliest sunrays are strong enough to bathe them in bed, until the first tell-tale sounds of Peshawar Castle’s slaves bustling around to do their work, that Daryun finally rouses, pulling himself up to sit.

Narsus watches the blanket slides down Daryun’s bare shoulders almost tantalizingly, and suppresses the way his hands itch for a paint brush. Not that Daryun would appreciate it if he captures this in a canvas, the barbarian. It would just be a waste of time.

He doesn’t fight the urge to lean close, though, to press their shoulders close and to rest his head on Daryun’s shoulder. Dark strands tangle with sandy ones, an eye-catching contrast under the warm rays of the sun, and Narsus lets himself appreciate the beauty for a moment, in the silence broken by the soft sounds of their breath, filled with his and Daryun’s own scent.

Then he withdraws and says, “Go.”

Daryun rises, leaving the warmth and safety of their bed and blankets. He pulls his hair up and back, slips into his usual attire—the white trousers and then the sleeveless black tunic. Muscles shifts as clothes settles to cover skin, and with Daryun’s dark cape finally secured upon his shoulders, Narsus watches as their best knight is reborn.

This morning and yesterday, too. Every single morning.

It’s a privilege he loathes to give up.

“Elam should be coming shortly,” Daryun says, turning around—eyes hardened, no trace of the softness they hold at night. Ready to face the day. “I will see you soon.”

Narsus hums. “Don’t cause trouble before I even leave the bed.”

“Nothing I won’t be able to handle myself.” Daryun pauses by the bedside, bending down, and brushes his lips against Narsus’ brow.

He leaves the room without another word, and Narsus turns back to the window, now bright as the sun rises higher.

“I suppose I must go as well.”

**\-----o0o-----**


End file.
